


Another Wonder of Thedas

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftercare, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Consentacles, Dirty Talk, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Magic, Tentacles, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-01 13:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12705750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: “Alistair? I found something you might like,” Zevran calls.“Is it an articulated golem doll?” he asks hopefully.“Better, my dear Warden.”





	Another Wonder of Thedas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragonflies_and_Katydids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/gifts).



> Look, I just saw the consentacles prompt and knew I HAD to write this.

Alistair gives Zevran’s arm a quick squeeze as they enter the Wonders of Thedas, then ducks for Zevran to kiss his cheek. The air tickles his nose in here, something warm and dusty like incense or sandalwood. It brings back memories of the Chantry, which makes it a little awkward as Zevran nibbles his ear and tugs the lobe. Alistair really, really loves Zevran, sometimes in a way that makes him want to wriggle like a mabari with a mouthful of steak, sometimes in a way that’s warm and thorny, and sometimes in a way that’s very, very uncomfortable because he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be thinking of the Chantry while getting a hard-on.

Zevran grins, teeth flashing as if he knows _exactly_ what’s going on inside his head, because _Maker_ for all that Alistair’s used to being teased about being thick, he feels transparent as glass.

“Have fun with your dolls, mi amor,” Zevran murmurs, breath ghosting hot over Alistair’s neck.

Alistair straightens up and stands at flustered attention. “They are _poseable miniatures_.”

“Have fun with your _poseable miniatures_ , mi amor.”

Mollified, Alistair beelines for the display case— which is an odd turn of phrase, to be quite honest, because Alistair has _never_ seen a bee go in a straight line, but that’s the exact sort of questioning that pulled him extra chores with the Templars. Which, frankly, makes it all the better when Zevran listens to his questions with unfeigned interest and doesn’t kick his shins too hard when Alistair wakes him up in the middle of the night to ask if birds have feelings.

(To which a groggy Zevran had replied, “Not to Shale they don’t.”)

Alistair browses the newest items, which include a snarling ogre and a dramatic likeness of Lady Cousland, her hair blowing back in wild shapes. As if she ever went into battle without her helmet, pfft.

“Alistair? I found something you might like,” Zevran calls.

“Is it an articulated golem doll?” he asks hopefully.

“ _Better_ , my dear Warden.”

Alistair can think of very few things better than an articulated golem doll— at least nothing that can be purchased, at least nothing that can be done in public— but Zevran points to the item that’s caught his fancy.

The intriguing item is a curved rod of dark wood, polished smooth and gleaming in the dim lights of the shop. It consists of a single, sinuous organic curve with a flared base embedded with black gems, each etched with golden runes.

Contrary to popular opinion, Alistair is no blushing Chantry boy— okay, bit of a lie, since he _does_ still blush and Zevran considers it fair sport— and raises only a single eyebrow.

“That’s a rather personal item to have on display, isn’t it?”

Zevran chuckles. “Gutter-mind. It's not a butt-plug. Though I suppose it could be used as one. But it is also a wand! Have you ever heard of a spell called Evard’s Black Tentacles?”

“Only in the dormitories after hours,” Alistair responds automatically, then flushes. “That is— I always thought it was a joke, you know? Like the Antivan sneeze or the Orlesian finger-trap.”

“The tentacles are quite real!” Zevran dips his head, fluttering his eyelashes with exaggerated coquetry. “Of course, if you do not wish to try it, you could simply _observe_ …”

Alistair hastens to assure him that no, no, Alistair didn’t _mean_ it like that, of _course_ Alistair would love to try it, and Zevran purchases the wand— a not inconsiderable sum, but considerably easier since Queen Cousland holds them modestly responsible for helping her wed Queen Anora and ascend the throne. Alistair spends the rest of the walk to their quarters trying to convince Zevran to let him have first try of the new toy.

As soon as the doors close, Zevran says, “If you wish to play, you must take your clothes off.” He adds a theatrical eyebrow-waggle.

Belatedly, Alistair realizes that this was Zevran’s master plan all along. He strips down in a matter of seconds, which must be some sort of record. 

Zevran gives a soft huff of laughter, but takes his own time getting undressed. He rucks up the edge of his tunic, turns so the light catches gold across the warm bronze of his stomach, and peels his shirt off in one long, slow pull. He dangles the shirt off his fingers before letting it drop to the floor, eyes locked with Alistair’s and smirking, dear Maker but he’s _smirking._ Alistair’s but a handful of tinder and Zevran’s the spark and he might just _explode_ if Zevran doesn’t hurry it up.

So when Zevran sits on the edge of the bed, unbuckling his boots, Alistair drops to his knees between Zevran’s legs. He kisses Zevran’s bare belly, elbows resting on the man’s thighs. Normally Zevran would stroke his hair and pet his neck, tell him what a good boy he is for assuming the position, but—

“Patience, my dear Warden.” Zevran dips forward to kiss Alistair’s forehead, then lowers further to nibble his ear. The a sharp nip. Alistair yelps, but resists swatting. “You like teasing.”

“I would also like to have sex before another Blight hits!”

Zevran bares his teeth in mock-snarl. “If you keep pushing, I shall spank you.”

Alistair grins.

“And you _shan’t_ get my cock in your mouth.”

Alistair sits back on his heels and sighs as Zevran finishes undressing. He tries to think of it as a sort of meditation, maybe. Deep breath in. Out. Hands clasped on his thighs, gnaw his lip. Try not to count the precious minutes flying past. Try not to groan at every soft rustle of cloth, every warm rustle of leather.

Finally, Zevran is naked too. Rather than kiss or touch Alistair though, he takes the wand in hand and presses one of the runes. Over a dozen tentacles spring from the floor in a knotted cluster. They shine beautifully, glistening with a natural lubrication that smells of… blackberries? Alistair doesn’t trust scented lubricants, not since a frolic with raspberry lotion left him with a most unpleasant rash, but the thick, blackberry-scented ooze is strangely appealing. He dabs his finger on the nearest tentacle and takes a lick. It tastes of blackberry jam, with a hint of mint. Thankfully it lacks the texture or seeds.

“The artificer must have been a chef,” he comments.

Zevran chuckles. “Cross-disciplinary studies in action.”

Alistair’s on his feet now, studying the undulating tentacles. They’re slippery, throbbing things, stretching and contorting themselves into a variety of sizes. At their smallest, Alistair estimates they’re no thicker than his littlest finger, though one of them gives an immense pulse and flexes larger than his wrist. Which isn’t intimidating, exactly, but _challenging_. Alistair’s had Zevran’s fist up his ass before and knows he can take it, but it’s rather different to have a lover’s body inside him than some unknown magic.

“How strong are they?” Alistair asks.

Zevran chuckles. “Would you like to find out?”

Tempting. Alistair’s enjoyed being tied up, tied down, bound hand and foot or bent over a table according to the rules of the game. There’s even a pleasure to the pain, to the lingering kiss of the ropes and the red marks that remind him of Zevran’s touch.

Alistair hesitates. “This isn’t— this isn’t naughty templar and the black tentacles, so you know. No roles, no other business. If I say no, then…”

“...then we stop,” Zevran finishes. “Of course, my dear.” He takes Alistair’s hand and rubs his thumb across the knuckles, dotting each jut of bone with a kiss.

Alistair melts. Can’t help it. He had always thought, somehow, that _he_ would be the one offering roses and dramatic touches, fed by a steady diet of romantic daydreams and (in hindsight) rather performative interpretations of the love between Andraste and the Maker, but this just comes so _easily_ with Zevran. Zevran knows all the same tropes, sure, but somehow he breathes them fresh in a way that still leaves Alistair spinning soft and dizzy.

Zevran squeezes his palm, and coaxes, “Whenever you are ready.”

Alistair offers his wrists, hands in loose fists and facing one another. Elbows bent, knees bent, trying to stay relaxed as Zevran flicks the wand to send two tentacles whipping around his arms. Alistair gives an experimental twist and almost slips free from the glistening shackles, but they pulse and squeeze more firmly. They still secrete that blackberry-scented goo, but Alistair is firmly locked in place as the tentacles tug his wrists behind him.

From here, it’s simple. They’ve done similar games enough for them to both know that Alistair’s favorite position is kneeling, begging, so two more tentacles coil around his thighs. He struggles— not because he doesn’t want to go, but because that’s part of the fun in testing those restraints— and gives a startled laugh as another tentacle slaps his bottom. Alistair follows obediently after that, kneeling on the floor with this legs spread. Zevran cocks his head, considering, then takes a towel and folds it on the floor. Alistair manages a guided shuffle onto the towel and mumbles his thanks.

Zevran kisses his cheek. “No sense in aching your knees, my dear. I fully expect you to kneel before me another day,” Zevran chuckles, and Alistair gives a tiny laugh that breaks into a whimper as the tentacle eases itself between his buttocks, a slippery rub of pressure against his entrance.

Zevran draws out the torment, sending more tentacles to curve Alistair in a mass of writhing coils and loops. It’s a very different feeling from Antivan ropework, sending delighted shivers down Alistair’s spine. There is an art to being beautifully bound, all neat geometric lines bisecting the chest and muscles, submission in being _made_ into a work of art, but there is a different aesthetic to being embraced by tentacles. It’s more like being welcomed into something larger than himself, strange and organic. Each oozing coil leaves a slippery residue, glossy and fragrant, that coats his skin like oil. There is no penetration yet— not even when Alistair bucks his hips, when he opens his mouth and groans as the nearest tentacle evades his probing tongue— but Alistair’s cock is already hard, though it remains mercilessly untouched by the tentacles.

“You are beautiful, my love,” Zevran murmurs, stroking his face, his arms. He runs his nails along the edge of Alistair’s biceps, a prickle-slice of his nails as he digs in. “I could happily commission this as a painting, no?”

“ _Please_ , Zevran,” Alistair pants.

“Please what? You are so very eager, you _must_ let me know,” Zevran teases.

Alistair grits his teeth, trying to bear down on the tentacle that, once again, touches without entering. It shifts, pressing behind his balls. “Please fuck my ass with the tentacles.”

Zevran kneels in front of him, stroking his face. Close enough his breath tickles Alistair’s mouth. “You know, this reminds me of a game. It is called King’s Cup.” He smells of cinnamon and honey, blending with the sweet blackberry scent of the tentacles. “It is a party game. The guest of honor is bent over a table for all takers, lovingly sodomized until they leak enough to fill a cup.”

The tentacle between Alistair’s legs rises, rubbing between the cheeks. Alistair licks his lips, lets his breath out in a low whimper.

“If they have been naughty, they are told to drink it. Or if they have been good. Or sometimes if they beg.”

The tentacle teases at Alistair’s entrance now, and finally Zevran crooks his little finger and Alistair could almost swoon with the relief as it finally, _finally_ enters him. There’s no resistance, not with the tentacle’s innate slipperiness and Alistair’s own eagerness, and Alistair tries to lower himself more fully onto it until his wrist shackles tug him up again.

“It’s a rather flexible game,” Zevran finishes.

“Crow parties sound much livelier than Warden parties,” Alistair says hoarsely. He closes his eyes, groans through his teeth as he sinks back on his heels. The tentacle fucks him slowly, an undulating rock in, and out, and in again. It swells within him, a gentle stretch that makes Alistair moan, that makes his thighs tremble with the desire to go faster, harder.

“All said, I have enjoyed my time with you Wardens rather more than I enjoyed my time with the Crows,” Zevran says lightly. “But does that sound good to you? Bent over, taking cock after cock, tentacle after tentacle, until your knees buckle and your legs shake and you leak onto the floor?”

“ _Maker_ , yes,” Alistair grits through his teeth. His shoulders tense as he struggles against his bonds, but the tentacles tighten about him and he falls still.

“Would you like to earn that privilege?” Zevran asks, stroking himself.

Alistair manages a snort. “Didn’t you say that was a lazy top’s trick? To demand oral sex for treats?”

“You act as if I am ashamed to use it,” Zevran laughs.

Alistair opens his mouth, tongue cupped. Zevran drags his nails up the back of Alistair’s neck, rasping through the short hair on the back of his skull as he stands. When Zevran offers his cock, Alistair remembers to curl his lips over his teeth as he sucks. Normally, Alistair would use his hands as well, create a backstop for his own eager mouth, but this is exhilarating in its lack of control, in how Zevran pushes, in how easily his cock hits the back of Alistair’s throat when Alistair bobs too far forward. Alistair laps at the sensitive underside of Zevran’s shaft, tickles the vein of his cock with as much of a wet-silk lap of tongue and lips as he can manage without hands.

Zevran rewards him by thrusting the tentacle deeper in his ass, letting it pulse thick and long, almost knotted within him. Alistair whimpers, because _Maker_ but it’s something like vibration, rumbling all through him and massaging his prostate in a way that even Zevran’s fingers have never managed. Zevran’s cock falls out of his mouth, and Zevran punishes him by lightly slapping his wet cock against Alistair’s cheek.

“Naughty, naughty,” Zevran teases.

Alistair groans, and he’s not sure when he became so wet, so damp. There’s tentacle lube all over him of course, but he’s been sweating, _working_ for it, and his lips and chin are slick with saliva. Hard to tell which of those fluids is the worst, the best, his skin slippery with glorious symphony of texture.

“If you spit it out again, I’ll have to punish you,” Zevran murmurs. “Perhaps I shall lock your cock in a cage? Perhaps I shall milk your prostate, push you to the edge, and never let you come?”

“Please don’t,” Alistair gasps. “I’ll be good.” He opens his mouth again, takes Zevran’s cock willingly and licks and sucks as best he can. Zevran’s been nothing but good to him, and deserves every bit of pleasure Alistair can give in return. Alistair licks and sucks, his wordless moans pressed into a wet squelch of mouth and body. Every wet smack of his lips and tongue, every swallow of his throat, feels like an obscene echo of the slippery tentacles all over him.

Zevran’s never shy during sex, keeping up a gentle, steady stream of “good boy, good boy,” and “yes, that’s it,” as his hand tightens on the back of Alistair’s head. There’s a particular throb to his cock, in the vein running underneath the shaft, and Alistair knows Zevran is close even before Zevran says, “Alistair. Mouth or face?”

Alistair bobs forward in answer, then pulls back with a long suck of his lips, dragging his tongue across Zevran’s slit as Zevran comes with a long spurt of salt and musk. Alistair swallows automatically, even though he feels it seeping about his lips. Then another long suck, tongue probing for stragglers until Zevran gives a strangled giggle and pulls away.

“Mi amor, that _tickles_.”

“Didn’t want it to go to waste,” Alistair says primly, or at least as primly as he can manage with cum on his chin.

There’s still a wet trickle down Zevran’s thighs, his cock wet and glistening, but Zevran redirects Alistair’s attention as he sits on the floor. He presses his finger to Alistair’s taint, pressing up and massaging his testicles, pinching the delicate skin over the scrotum and chuckling at Alistair’s whimper. “I think you deserve a second tentacle now.”

Alistair nods, then groans as another tentacle presses against his ass. This one is thicker than the first, or at least thicker than the first had been when it first went in, but it enters just as easily. They writhe inside him, full and frictionless; a gentle pressure, a feeling of _fullness_ and satisfaction that makes his eyes roll back, that makes him groan as Zevran takes Alistair’s cock in his mouth.

Zevran can be painstakingly gentle when he chooses, but oh— he can also be so wonderfully _mean_. He drags blunt teeth against the base, nails pricking Alistair’s ball as he massages each testicle. Alistair gives a gasping curse as Zevran’s tongue swirls over his cock, as he feels himself come closer to the edge, scrotum tight and rising and the sensations blurring, that wonderful wet push of tentacles in his ass and that wonderful wet thrust of Zevran’s mouth, and Alistair’s breath hisses past his teeth and his world constricts to cock, ass, push, come, going to—

Zevran pulls back, laughing.

Alistair swears, struggling against the tentacles. They only bind him tighter and drape another glistening coil across his chest.

“Not just yet, dear Warden. Would you truly like to be bent over the bed for all the hungry tentacles, or would you like to finish now?” Zevran runs his fingers across Alistair’s slippery ooze, and licks the blackberry ooze off his hand.

The two tentacles already inside him pulse, twisting in different directions, and even as slippery as they are there’s a special feeling as they rub past one another, coiling and writhing and—

“Bend me over,” Alistair says hoarsely.

Zevran gestures languidly, and the tentacles pull up, forcibly lifting Alistair and dropping him to the bed on his knees and forearms. Ass up and exposed, and he can’t see Zevran any more, can only imagine Zevran’s smile, Zevran leaning forward to take in the show as a third tentacle pushes its way into Alistair’s ass. It’s not _so_ inconceivable, not when Alistair’s taken Zevran’s fist before, but it changes the pattern of their twists, restricts their movement so that there is less writhing and more _thrusting_ , pushing Alistair’s face into the bedding, forcing his knees to buckle as he falls forward and oh, and oh, but now there’s another tentacle under him, coiled around his cock and stroking him with slippery coils.

He loses track of things after that, lost in the writhing mass of the tentacles. One of the tentacles leaves, eventually, and then another, but soon others arrive to take their place, sliding in and out with ease. Some of them might be repeat visitors, he’s not sure— but they’re gentle each time, each as slippery and glistening as the last, all pushing and massaging. One probes his mouth, blackberry-juicy and wet, and he opens his mouth for it. Fucking, sucking, getting fucked by so many that he loses count, he finally comes with a soft cry.

“Alistair? How are you?” Zevran calls, as if from a great distance.

Alistair swallows, mumbling his way back to himself. No, no it doesn’t hurt, it’s still too slippery for that, but after orgasm the tentacles abruptly go from feeling good to feeling sore, strangely ticklish as they squirm inside him. “I came,” he adds, belatedly.

“Are you done?”

Alistair nods, loose and sloppy. When Zevran banishes the tentacles, Alistair collapses under his own weight. Falls forward on his face and moans.

“Oh dear, we have quite a mess,” Zevran says cheerfully.

Though the tentacles are gone, they’ve left behind their blackberry residue. Alistair’s utterly drenched, skin still slippery and sticky with the goo, leaking cum and saliva from his mouth, and all the lube tickling as it drips out his ass, tiny spurts as his hole clenches, unclenches, smearing down his thighs…

“You need a bath,” Zevran informs him.

Alistair nods.

Zevran draws a bath— one of the many perks of palace plumbing— and sits behind Alistair in the tub, massaging his shoulders and gently scrubbing away the remnants of blackberry ooze.

Alistair rolls his head back, sinking deeper in the warm water. “I am glad you didn’t kill us, Zevran.”

Zevran kisses his ear. “Me too.”


End file.
